


Fissure

by stage_master



Category: True Detective
Genre: Car Sex, Hallucinations, Hand Jobs, M/M, When they don't speak Marty and Rust seem to get along just fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 01:07:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1570334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stage_master/pseuds/stage_master
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Rust Cohle can't just enjoy a handjob like a normal person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fissure

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the TD kink meme, and since I really love this fandom and want to keep fanning the flames, I decided to put it up here too ^_^

 

* * *

 

At this time in his life he is always aware of where he is. Spatially, at least. Metaphysically he’s in a void, a hole that he stopped wanting to crawl out of when his little light left the world. His hair is curly but kept more or less close to the buzzing in his head. When his brain decides to take its little vacations he doesn’t melt away from reality, the pictures just start to run a bit. A sky yawns and spits out clusters of coal-black clouds that almost coalesce into faces. Street lights bend around the edges of buildings and spiral up up up up until his eyes water and he blinks the darkness back into being.

 

This thing starts in one of the dips, the valleys of quiet his mind sometimes slips into where Marty’s hand reaches out for the front of his shirt and it doesn’t morph into something painful, something cold and sharp. He’s pulled forward roughly, the engine of Marty’s car ticking away under the cooling hood beneath him, and his head falls back. He stares into the deepening shadows above them, thick branches of the southern magnolia hiding waxy flowers that open up before his eyes into white watching faces. Marty smells like growing desperation, like the bottle of bourbon he finished and tossed against the side of his car to create a waterfall of glass that shone in the dying light like crystalline tears. There’s a hand on his throat and another unbuckling his tired brown belt, Marty huffing and puffing like a steam engine, and Rust brings up his arms and digs into the back of his partner’s head. It’s a weak tether. The world is narrowing, pinpointing, he feels the scope homing in on this moment and preparing to break it open, a force that has circled their lives and come back to this here, this now. Marty has both of them in his hand, spit-slicked skin and the furnace of their bodies pressed together chest to chest. He closes his eyes and sees a brightness that never reaches beyond the backs of his eyelids, fractals of this place in time repeating over and over in patterns that smell like the soft patch of skin behind Marty’s ear and old manila folders and diner coffee.

 

His climax comes like an afterthought.

 

Marty grunts, moves to grab a rag or a fast food napkin from the glove compartment but Rust can’t unclench his fingers from the collar of his shirt, can’t reconnect his mind with his body in this place, so Marty stills. Brings his clean hand up to Rust’s nape and cups it tenderly as he’s able within his own definition of intimacy. Their breathing almost syncs, one always lagging just behind the other, and when Rust finally opens his eyes it’s to find the darkness has leaked out of him and sunk into the air around them.

 

They move apart without speaking.

 

Time spins out and this happens again and again, like someone’s waiting for him to get bored and change the story. He never does.

 

Or maybe he just can’t.

* * *

 


End file.
